


Velvet Silence

by panpinecone



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Exhaustion, Extremely Dubious Consent, Loss of Identity, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Rebirth, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8417239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panpinecone/pseuds/panpinecone
Summary: Ocelot can't deny that there's something off about the man in the castle. Even so, something compels him to play along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Dracula survived into the 1980s and has persuaded Ocelot to visit his castle under false pretenses.

While true that Ocelot had journeyed to the crumbling castle out of a necessity for connections and intel, it didn't help him appreciate the sight of its looming structure any more than he otherwise would. The sun was all but gone, its fading rays barely outlining the castle's silhouette. Wolves howled in the distance, and an accompanying cloudy sky did nothing for the overall decrepit image.

Ocelot's dislike of the aristocracy played its part as usual, but an instinctual unease bubbled beneath the surface as well, leaving him feeling irrationally misplaced. He did his best to swallow down the inexplicable sensation, and for the most part succeeded.

So began his walk to the castle doors.

The older man who greeted him there—after providing a name that was almost certainly fake, and a title that gnawed at Ocelot's amenity regardless of authenticity—offered to carry in his luggage, citing the late hour for the absence of hired assistance.

As they made their way up the stairs and to what would become Ocelot's room for the duration of his stay, the Count (as he'd introduced himself) made small talk consisting of pleasantries regularly exchanged between host and guest. Ocelot answered as would best befit his cover, all while taking in his surroundings, not the least of which was the Count himself.

He possessed an appearance that was altogether odd. His skin was pale and sagging, yet his eyes betrayed a spark of life still very much present within his husk of a body. Stranger still was the jovial smile he offered Ocelot; it was just a little too sharp and a little too wide to be anything but uncanny. His accent wasn't readily identifiable to Ocelot's ear either, leaving him puzzled and doing nothing to dissuade the traces of unease persisting in his gut. Moreover, there was something disconcerting about the way he moved. It was stiff and restrained, as if his clothes were too constricting, though Ocelot highly doubted they hadn't been tailor-made.

Even so, he seemed no more odd than any of the other characters Ocelot had at one time or another had the questionable pleasure of corresponding with.

Unwarranted apprehension clawed at Ocelot's insides.

Upon arriving at the guest room, the Count invited him to make himself at home, then promptly left, saying they'd meet downstairs for dinner. After a few minutes of exploring the room and adjoining bathroom, Ocelot did as suggested and descended the stairs to the dining hall.

Their dinner was largely uneventful, idle chatter filling the gaps between them as Ocelot ate. The Count, on the other hand, cited an earlier meal as reason enough for his lack of plate. Suspicious though it was, Ocelot hastily thought over all other possibilities before concluding that conceding the point and eating his own portion would ultimately be for the best.

Something at the back of his mind protested to no avail.

When he eventually brought up the business at hand, the very motive for his travels, he had the distinct impression that the Count was very badly feigning an interest. Though irksome, Ocelot knew he'd have at least another day to gain the man's attention.

That wasn't to say he didn't already have it, but the way it had manifested was of no use to him: The times he'd caught the Count's eyes targeting the scarf wound around his neck were numerous, and if he weren't so determined to follow the mission through to the height of his abilities, he might have already spoken up about it.

As it was, he knew politeness could work wonders, and was therefore inclined to be generous on the matter.

He'd been generous for much of the evening.

The feeling of unease refused to pass.

 

* * *

 

His dreams are restless, and when he first feels the sting at his throat, he's not entirely sure that it isn't just an extension of a particularly vivid dream.

He shifts, feeling a gentle weight atop him, comfortable but immobile. The sting at his throat dissipates before shortly returning, though only a shadow of its former self. He moves, first away and then towards, before relaxing to the sensation.

It steadily turns pleasurable, setting his heartbeat pounding in anticipation. The weight on him seems to increase and leaves him gasping for breath as he faintly squirms against it.

The tingle of cold hands running over his heated skin follows, wringing forth more dreamlike confusion from him. He feels as if his clothes have vanished, but the thought barely has enough time to cross his mind before he has the very realistic impression of being suddenly stretched around an unexpected intrusion.

His insides are chilled and he shivers, unable to open his eyes however much he tries.

Maybe the problem is that he doesn't want to.

 

* * *

 

He woke up cold and exhausted, but otherwise exactly as he'd gone to bed. After using the mirror in his luggage (there was none in his room) to assess his neck (he determined it was perfectly intact), he put aside his nighttime concerns and prepared himself for the day ahead.

As soon as he gathered the intel he'd come for, he could return to his usual routine— what little of it there was. The days he wasn't forced to make trips to and fro, he could be found in Cyprus, reading reports by John's bedside and generally devoting as much attention to him as possible.

Despite how much he'd rather devote all of it to John, there was only so much good that could ensure. When John woke up (and Ocelot knew that he would), mountains of intel and reliable connections would be infinitely more useful to him than the knowledge that Ocelot hadn't left his side for more than a few minutes at a time.

It was vital that Ocelot continued his work.

He still regretted it.

It spoke volumes about how far away his thoughts were when he nearly stepped on the note that had been slipped beneath his door.

Ocelot skimmed it over. It was from the Count, excusing himself for the day as he was away on urgent business.

It was disappointing news, but Ocelot didn't let it dissuade him. He took it for the opportunity it was and readied himself to explore the castle.

He began in the dining hall, hungry and all too aware of how it would look were he to miss breakfast. His host may not be present, but the servants would no doubt be. They were sure to report back word of Ocelot's apparent disappearance.

He arrived downstairs to find breakfast freshly served, but much to his surprise, there were no signs of servants anywhere in the vicinity. He resolved to seek one out just as soon as he'd finished eating.

He followed through on the initiative and proceeded to spend the rest of the day walking about the castle, trying door after door. Several were locked, and of the few he could open, the majority led to yet more doors. However, there were also a handful containing small studies with books obscure enough to interest him for the duration of the day.

It was evening when the Count returned. He appeared pleased to find Ocelot occupying himself with the castle's vast literary collection. After some more pleasantries, they went down to dinner where, again, the Count didn't eat. Ocelot barely spared it a second thought.

The topic turned to the Count's family, at which point he began reminiscing about their past. Though he clearly had airs of superiority based on bloodline alone, Ocelot was genuinely inclined to listen to his tales.

He asked questions in the appropriate places and postponed bringing up the promised intel again.

There was always the next day.

 

* * *

 

The oppressive weight is back on him and he can barely breathe beneath it.

Instead, he tilts his head back as best he can, a soft whine leaving his lips at the sharp sting on his neck— but he can breathe.

He focuses on gulping in air even as icy touches trail down his form, scratching and squeezing and finally stopping between his thighs. The next sensations are ones he knows all too well, and as misplaced as it is, he finds himself anticipating them, gasping and parting his legs wider.

There's a cold intrusion once again, and his eyes barely slip open.

He can't identify the silhouette before drifting back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The castle rumbled around him with the chaotic pounding of rain, a storm having formed in the early morning hours and showing no signs of stopping. Thundering booms echoed throughout the halls and the blinding glow of lightning sporadically flooded in through the windows.

It was clear that Ocelot would be spending another night.

He resigned himself to it and contemplated how best to spend his day. As before, the Count was nowhere to be found, but Ocelot had come to care even less about the current absence than the last.

Pulling out his mirror and checking his reflection brought an altogether different concern to the forefront of his mind: He'd acquired an unseemly pallor. He angled the mirror towards his neck. A small area was pinker than the rest.

He elected to draw up a bath for himself.

Once inside it, he continued his observations, thoroughly looking over himself and noting the change appeared to have affected his entire body. Previously reddened skin had become a pale pink, pale areas were nearly toneless, and his nail beds sported a distinctive lavender coloring. Examination of his inner wrists revealed surprisingly visible veins, like purple roots spreading beneath his skin.

A part of his mind, muted and sluggish, knew that something was wrong. The changes, the castle, the Count.

Himself.

He didn't acknowledge that part of his mind.

Over an hour passed where he simply languished in the bath, feeling his eyelids overcome by an almost unnatural drowsiness. He woke with a start more than once, only to drift out of consciousness time and time again.

The storm had cleared and the sun was beginning its downward trek by the time he stepped out of the tub. Still tired, he dried off and returned to his bed, quickly falling back asleep.

When his eyes reopened, the last few rays of sunlight were steadily dying away as night approached.

Feeling incredibly refreshed, Ocelot left the bed, stretching and stepping over to the window. He gazed out at the darkening forest before him, hearing the distant howling of wolves.

A series of scuffling noises brought his attention downwards. In the last vestiges of light, he was able to make out the Count scaling the castle walls with nearly inhuman skill. Though his face was turned away from Ocelot, the uniformly black clothes were proof enough of his identity.

Minutes passed as Ocelot looked on, moonlight overtaking the landscape and the Count not once glancing upwards. His movement resembled that of a lizard, defying gravity without the use of any aids that Ocelot could see. He moved freely across the wall's surface, side to side and up and down with a sort of fluidity befitting a machine.

Ocelot watched as he finally reentered the castle through one of the lower windows. It was likely that he'd be waiting at the dinner table, so down to meet him Ocelot went.

As had become customary, a solitary meal was waiting for him, his host sitting opposite it. Just as before, they made conversation while Ocelot ate, the Count never coming up short when it came to the sheer number of subjects he wished to discuss.

His skin seemed sleeker, Ocelot noted. Tighter and fuller, with an expanded range of expressions to match. He appeared more animated as well, hands accompanying his words with fingers less bony than they'd once seemed.

Ocelot carried on eating his food. He didn't ask about what he'd seen.

 

* * *

 

A dull ache at his neck forces him to open his eyes.

There's no mistaking the form above him, face cradled around his neck: It's the Count, teeth at his skin and lips soon following in a tangle of sensations that leaves Ocelot nearly breathless.

He moans weakly and the Count pulls away, traces of red adorning his mouth.

“What... What are you?”

The Count smiles, fully exposing his sharpened teeth. “I am Dracula, and soon you will be like me,” he says before descending again, eagerly lapping at the spot he'd left.

Comprehension and disbelief rush through Ocelot in equal amounts, pumping through his body as strongly as the blood that his vampiric assailant seeks. The understanding of what he'll become settles deep in his chest, and with it comes the realization that he's far too close to death.

Despite the absurdity of it, his one regret is that John will never again trust him.

The regret lingers as Dracula finishes feeding, pulling away and trailing a hand down to Ocelot's naked hip.

Obediently, Ocelot accommodates a space between his legs and waits for the initial push. When it comes, it's only slightly colder than Ocelot himself, leaving him with nothing to feel but the burn of the stretch, muted from what it used to be.

Dracula gives him no time to adjust, rapidly thrusting in and out of Ocelot's nearly lifeless body. Numbness overtakes him and he can barely keep his eyes open.

He lets the slow sound of his dying heartbeat lull him to sleep at last.

 

* * *

 

_**.......** _

 

* * *

 

Sunlight was shining into his room when he opened his eyes.

Exhaustion, numbness, and thirst were all he could feel, but he made his way out of bed nonetheless. Staggering to his luggage, he dug around and pulled out the mirror.

His reflection was fading.

He headed back to bed.

 

* * *

 

It is night and Ocelot is _alive_.

Dracula's nude body is beneath him, succulent and leaving Ocelot salivating both figuratively and literally.

He's so, _so_ thirsty.

He darts down and sinks his newly sharpened teeth into Dracula's flesh, desperately lapping at the blood that comes up to meet him. An encouraging hand rests atop his head and he drinks his fill, sighing in ecstasy with every couple of gulps.

Satisfied, he sits back up to take in his prize.

He'd thought about doing the same thing to John. Countless times he'd imagined it as he sat beside that hospital bed. He could claim his prize at last.

But he didn't.

One last shred of regret tugs at him before being brushed aside.

He grasps Dracula's cock and playfully squeezes it, employing every bit of restraint within his power so as not to immediately toss aside all pretense of foreplay. He pumps the cock to an eerily nostalgic rhythm and situates himself closer, finally letting the beat go as he helps Dracula inside.

Ocelot happily licks his newly sharped teeth. Fulfilled in all possible senses, he rides Dracula frantically, gratitude for his new life manifesting in the most carnal of ways. A never-ending series of whines, moans, and whimpers leaves him. His dick bounces with every movement. His hips falter and his muscles milk Dracula's cock.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't in his mirror.

The transformation was complete; he'd never see John again.

There was no regret inside him.

He was gone at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this: [panpinecone.tumblr.com/post/147249910988](http://panpinecone.tumblr.com/post/147249910988)


End file.
